


neutral ground, rocks

by auxanges



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dirty Talk, M/M, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Seadwelling Trolls (Homestuck), Size Difference, Xeno, seadweller anatomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 03:31:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: In the shoddy light of the bar’s hall, you watch his pupils shrink, then widen again. Fear, arousal, in that order. A challenge.





	neutral ground, rocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSleepyGriffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepyGriffin/gifts).

> Honestly with this request the person receiving it can do what they please. A rough blackrom pailing with dirty talk, some aggression, etc. or a gentle, soft redrom pailing is also chill with me too. The only request that I make is to avoid anything related to vomit, piss, scat, and other things along those lines. Thank you!
> 
> *
> 
> no, thank YOU! black dualsign fucking rules

You meet the troll who calls himself the Signless once. 

He’s old enough to sneak his way into a dingy moorside speakeasy and young enough to be supremely shit at it. From your perch by the door, he catches your eye soon as he walks in, warm enough to singe the cuffs of your shirt. All the caution this side of the waterfront can’t hide him from you.

Don’t seem like he cares. He sidles up to the bar, and shows the blueblood working it a row of rounded teeth and a handful of crumpled bills. It’d be cute if it didn’t raise your hackles just seeing him invade your space. 

Naturally, the only thing to do is invade his right back. 

There’s a free stretch of table next to him, and you cross one leg under you and tell the bartender to beat it. No one ever really sticks around for you to ask twice. 

“Minnows don’t last in the deep end, you know.” 

You’re rewarded with the double-take of the century, a record-time flick-flick of irises a colour that stamps itself behind your oculars. He catches himself, though, turning back to his drink. “I’m not here to make enemies.”

“Fuck no. You already made ‘em.” Your teeth are shark-sharp and closer to his jugular than you remember. It’s probably that heat. Body heat, whatever. Bright season’s far away and these endless nights have your head screwed on wrongways. 

He growls at you. You burst out laughing into your triple whiskey. “Real cute. You’re gonna make me soil my britches.” 

_ Oh, but would it be so bad? _

That’s the voice that tries to pass it off as your conscience, a trait seaborn lack to a fatalistic degree. It wonders at the uniqueness of your encounter, at the ceasefire you’ve trapped yourselves in out of dumb shit like customs. Out on open ocean, custom is dictated by the fittest, which is typically you. Why must this place be any different? 

“You’re sittin chum out here, kid. Let’s get you somewhere away from pryin eyes.”

“What about your prying eyes, Ampora?” 

You don’t bother asking how he knows your name. Instead, you tap your temple. “Only got the one, chief.”

He slides off the bench into your shadow, and you throw down enough coins to shut the bartender up when he comes back.

* * *

He’s a bitey little bastard. You inform him of this, smugly, when he’s got his blunted chompers halfway up your jaw and his legs wrapped around your hips. “I thought you were a pacifist, minnow.” 

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me,” he snarls back, and closes his teeth on your fin. You groan out some choice expletives, the real ones that make your lesser shipmates cringe, and slam him against the wall by his hair. He whimpers. You drink up the sound. 

“I know plenty.” You crawled ashore sweeps ago with a rumble of thunder for a voicebox, and you can feel him react to it under too many layers of clothing. “I been on your track for longer than any of you and your sorry crew can fathom. I know how your lot slink around where you think you won’t be seen.” 

In the shoddy light of the bar’s hall, you watch his pupils shrink, then widen again. Fear, arousal, in that order. A challenge. He presses his knees against your sides until your sea-parts protest, and you give him a good shake. His next move is to kiss you, which. Sure. Isn’t that where this was going?

And he isn’t half-bad. Your wagers about their pesky clade must be pretty on the money, but that train of thought is quick to dissolve when he takes to exploring your mouth in earnest. Your tongue grazes his teeth, and he melts against you, rutting against the juncture of your hip and your thigh.

“You know they ain’t glued to me,” you remark, roughly.

He grunts in something like a question. To be young, all that.

“My pants, chief.” You undo them one-handed to demonstrate, and laugh low in your chest when he stares at you. “Don’t go playin dumb. I invented that ages before you were a freak twinkle in the Mother’s ocular socket. Why else would you come to this dump?”

“I,” says the Signless, followed by “oh” when you hike up his stupid cloak to get at his trousers.

His adult moult is still soft under your work-worn fingertips, and he chirrs at that contact too, a sound he hates judging by the way his fangs click against yours. You taste blood and old alcohol.

By the time he thinks to put his hands on you, you’re halfway to asking to feel how hot he is. Maybe it’s contagious, his feverish touch. When he wriggles an arm between your chests and slips fingers between your thighs, you let out all your air in a rush. Your bulge is coaxed free and given similar treatment: you burn in several great ways, and allow some truth to the whole chasing holy things penchant lowbloods have.

You seek out his nook, impatient; he pretends not to notice, or not to want it, but you can smell blood from five miles and you can smell sex just as good, thanks much, and it’s all over the minnow. “You fuckin’ reek,” you say, just so he gets the idea. “You goddamn junkie. Thrill-seekin with the big boys the only thing that gets your rocks off now?”

He whimpers again, a fluid sound that, if you were his age, would have you kicking a pail under you without much more fanfare. But you’re in charge here, as with most encounters in your life. You lift him higher against the wall, easing him down on your bulge slow enough for his next moan to break apart into clean syllables, sharp at both ends.

“Fu-ck.”

The Signless laughs, drunk on too much adrenaline for his tiny body, and tightens around you. You almost white-out right then, which would just fucking undo you, to be bested by this scrawny blight upon your earth. There’s no way he doesn’t know ‘em, these stakes you tossed in the ring when you dragged him into the hallway by his collar. It means you have no qualms wrecking his shit back to where he came from.

It’s messy, the whole thing. He mouths at your gills like he can breathe for you, and you let him, because he’s not likely to get this close to seaborn again; you suck bruises along his collarbones like dark jewels, refusing to break skin but painful enough to remind him you can; a wasted teal stumbles into periphery and you flare, a full-on _mine_ show for the minnow’s benefit as much as yours.

Because the whole Empire wants to tear him asunder, but you’re the only one who can.

His nook shudders around you, his gear thrashing and leaving streaks of candy-colour along your skin, furious red on flushed grey. You reach down again to get some of it on your palms, a slave to your curiosity. He may as well be on fucking fire, with the way he shakes apart in your grip, and when the Signless comes it’s with his face in the crook of your neck, your heavy breaths whistling around his curls.

You’re bottomed out in him and nowhere near enough of a gentleman to actually bother with formal shit like buckets. Why would you? This den has seen more colour than the inside of a big top in tour season, most of it on its floor. There’s no chance in hazy hells that you’ll hand over your genes mixed with whatever his shit passes as. Your finish warms you all over, and your fins snap and flutter and catch on the rounded tips of his horns. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your comedown. The minnow logs three breaths for every one of yours. When he extricates his sniffer from your throat, he looks taller. Confident. His teeth are still dull and his eyes are still red stars, but if you close your good eye you can see a little more of what they see in him. 

The Signless smells like embers. 

“Scram,” you say, doing up your pants. 

He blinks at you, long lashes kissing the sweat along his cheekbones. “Wh—”

“The back door, simpleton. Scarper before I change my mind.”

Now he grins with more than confidence. It’s the rictus of someone who got what they were looking for. 

“See you around, Ampora.”

You rub your clean hand over your face and saunter back to the bar, pick up your tab, and when you get back to your ship you do not dream, and you do not think of meeting him a second time. 

Much.


End file.
